April is in my Mistress' face
by dutchbuffy2305
Summary: Spike and Buffy have a talk during Gone


**April is in my Mistress' face**_ by dutchbuffy2305_

Rating:_ PG-13_

Timeline:_ During Gone_

Author's note:_ For the Spuffyficathon, for Evemac. Post-Wrecked One or Two Things You Want to See in the Fic: Spike and Buffy finally sitting down and hashing it all out. All of their issues. Angst, verbal fighting, anger, tears and anything else that can come from that situation. Oh, and Buffy kicked out __Willow__ at the end of Wrecked. One or Two Things You Don't Want to See in the Fic: No physical fighting, no sex, no other characters._

Author's website:

Feedback:_ Yes, please, to dutchbuffy2305@yahoo.co.uk_

This is getting ridiculous. He's gonna get what he came for - or what his excuse was for coming by at this hour - then leave. A man's got his pride. The Slayer looks at him with the eyes of a trapped animal. Spike walks towards her slowly and purposefully, making like a tiger, a sexy virile tiger, and sees her eyes glaze over with lust, her little body trembling against the front door. He smiles down on her. Her bosom heaves and her stomach muscles jerk when his hand lands on her belly. Leisurely he slides his hand lower, inching toward her jeans pocket where he's spotted his lighter. Her lips open involuntarily and her eyelids flutter shut. 

Spike hesitates. He was gonna grab the lighter and scarper, leaving her against the door with her eyes closed and panting for him, but maybe he should give it one more try. His hand stills and he kisses her upturned mouth, he softly but insistently slips his tongue inside and she reacts with moans and undulations of her hips. Predictably, it lasts only a few seconds and then her stern angry mask slams over her face again and she pushes him away angrily.

"Why are you still here, Spike? You're not wanted here."

Her eyes flare and her fists are balled, but unlike her friends he can hear her breath hitching and her heart beating fast and erratically. He almost goes off in a flash of hurt feelings and flaring leather but instead takes a deep breath. He stays put, in front of her but not in her face, and puts his hand on her shoulder.

"Of course you're upset with that social worker person, horrible old bat, how dare she say you're a bad sis? You're doing a great job with the Nibblet, you know that."

She bites her lips but she can't dam the flood any longer. Hot tears spring from her eyes and her face crumples. She sobs on his chest, fists flailing with helpless anger and whatnot. He could kick her damn friends, in fact he'd kill them if he thought it would do any good, chip or no chip. Damn witch, whining and indulging herself instead of helping Buffy. Nibblet not bucking up like she should, acting like she was ten instead of sixteen, blaming Buffy for Willow's actions. Though it's a good thing Buffy kicked her out of the house. He loves Dawn, but she could do a lot more to support her sis. Not like the world revolves around her all the time. Spike decides to sit the Bit down and give her a good talking to. Girl should do some housework, once her arm is healed, because he's seen Buffy slaving away when she's slaying as well. Ought to get a job, like a normal teenager instead of the spoilt brat she's pretending to be. Not to mention the Watcher taking off like that, not acting like a proper dad should. The useless carpenter, not even gonna start on him.

Buffy's wild sobs are calming down a bit. He puts his finger under her chin and tilts her wet and blotchy face up to his. He'd like to wipe away the tears that glisten on her cheeks but he knows better than to try.

"What you need is a drink, love. Get your spirits up."

"Ew, Spike!" Her face stretches in disgust and she's wrenching away from him. "At ten in the morning? You're so gross."

He's got an endless supply of patience for her. "Nice cuppa then. Do you good."

She rolls her eyes but allows him to accompany him into the kitchen. "I never drink tea, Spike. Haven't you noticed?"

He hesitates in the door opening. The kitchen is even brighter than a minute ago. Buffy's outlined by the blinding sunlight like a goddess, her hair like the corona of the sun itself, her skin glowing like molten gold. Her sullenly curved lips are bright with blood and her shadowed eyes sign his doom, even as the flecks of pale amber in the dark green speak of life and hope. She'll be the death of him, he knows that, but he's still gonna be a willing sacrifice on the altar of love.

She throws him an enigmatic look from her hooded eyes but shuts the Venetian blinds so the bright spots on the kitchen floor disappear and a pleasant dimness takes their place. The sunlight still glows through the slats, but inside the cool diffused light gives the room a Mediterranean atmosphere. It's the clearest signal of please stay in spite of what I say that's she's ever given him.

"Sit down," he says. "I'll make you coffee."

Buffy's face is a picture of skepticism. "Right. Like you know how to make it?"

His hand hovers over the electric kettle but a faint exasperated sound from her makes him wait just a second longer and then he spots the coffee machine. Right. He knew that. He prods the white plastic thing and a red light comes on. 

"I knew you couldn't make coffee!"

Her red-tipped finger jabs angrily at the button and the light goes off again. "Here. Get out of the way, let me do it."

Spike stands his ground. "Teach me," he says. "I'll learn how to do it and bring you breakfast in bed every morning."

"Like I'd wanna see you every morning," she bitches automatically but her heart's not in it. 

He lets it go. 

He follows her quick practiced movements avidly. Ah. He notes where she keeps the coffee and the filters. It is like making tea. Grounds and water in and then press the button. He can do that, he just needed to be shown once.

"Milk and sugar, pet?"

"Black, Spike, black."

"I'll remember."

She sighs. Such a put-upon sound.

"Just wanna help you, you know," he says, sitting down next to her. 

She twitches, almost gets up but sinks down again, too weary to get away from him like she really wants. It hurts.

"You really wanna help me, Spike?"

"'Course, love. Everything," he says, hopefully.

"Leave me alone. You're just one more person who wants something from me. You all want attention, attention, attention. Make the world perfect, Buffy. Go slay, Buffy. Pay the bills. Have sex with me. You're all the same."

It cuts to the bone to be grouped with her useless mates.

"I'm not like them!" he protests. "I gave you the best night of your life! I look after you!"

"You want, Spike. It pulls and pulls at me and it makes me tired. I just want to be left alone."

"You used to talk to me, you know. You didn't think I was a burden then."

Something beeps and she gets up. She moves like an old woman, expending the minimum possible effort. She gets out mugs from the cabinets and pours coffee. He should have done that. He'll have to remember about the beep.

"You should have stuck to being my friend, Spike."

"I still am your friend!" he protests.

"No, you're not. You just want to get in my pants. You just want a piece of me."

This the piece you mean, love, he wants to drawl, put his hand on her braless breast, softly bobbing on the rhythm of her breath. But he doesn't. He can be silent for her again, like he used to. Really? Another voice in his head taunts. You gonna give up the feel of her hot pussy clenching around you dick? Really? After having a taste of that, can you go back to bloodless friendship hoping and waiting and keeping your mouth shut about what you feel? 

Spike can't look at her face. He needs something to do with his hands and filches her spoon. The surreptitious lick he takes tastes of Buffy and coffee in equal measure and he stirs his black coffee mindlessly. He's failed her. He thought he was making her happy, allowing her to let go of all those pent-up feelings of sex and destruction. He thought they were a part of her that should be freed, the terrible aspect of her he loves as much her goodness and her tiny body. He takes a deep breath.

"Buffy, if you want me to, I'll just be your friend again. You'll have to show me how. I can see all the things you want but I don't know how to pick the right one."

"What do you mean all the things I want? You think I wanted you? You think your skanky undead body is the fulfillment of my dreams?"

It is. It was. He can read her emotions like a book. There wasn't a thing on her mind that night but to have that very undead body again and again until it made her scream. The things he did to her with his hands and his cock and his mouth made her mewl like a cat and howl like a dog. It made her forget everything. 

He is listening, though. He hears her say that her emotions aren't the only thing she listens to. She's not like him. Catering to the demands of her body isn't all that she wants, she thinks it's wrong.

He can listen. He can learn. He holds his disappointment carefully and puts it away. Not the emotion but the goal. 

He puts his hand over hers, and it twitches and struggles like a little animal in the throes of death. The strong Slayer could have had him through the window into the sunlight with no trouble at all. The slow burn of her shining heat makes every inch of his skin ache, and she is the sun, and she will scorch him to cinders, flay him, his skin will slough off, layer after layer, until there's nothing left but quivering pink entrails and naked charred bone. The other ache she gives him is in his heart, she makes it churn inside as if he hasn't been dead and still there for a long time and she knows it, too, from the look she gives him. She doesn't soothe the searing pain of it, she doesn't want to. She's burning too, and his cool whiteness could quench her blazing hurt and resentment like milk, but she won't let him, she wants more of the cleansing flame to remind herself she's alive, to punish herself for her failure at oblivion.

Slowly she forces his hand off the counter and on her belly. She yanks wordlessly on the lapels of his duster and he sinks on his knees like the supplicant she makes him be. He cannot refuse and kisses the silky honeyed skin of her belly. His fingers scrabble obediently at the buttons of her tight jeans; the scent of her caresses his nose with its salty tangy perfume. He breathes hard on the crotch seam of her pants, but it's no use, his brand of fire has no heat, the only way he can generate that is by friction

"Teach me what you want, Buffy. Show me. Explain it to me. How to be your friend." 

His voice is raw with need, he'd cut out his heart if she asked it of him. He wants to be different. Doesn't want to be a leech like her sister and her friends, sucking her dry until she has given up what little life she's got left. 

She pushes him off, angered at the words, any words that come out of his mouth. She wants to be serviced in silence, so she can pretend there's no one there.

"How could you help me, Spike?" she asks bitterly "You know about child care? Finances? If kicking your junkie best friend out of the house will actually help her? You're a vampire. You kill, that's all you know."

He knows how to maintain an insane mistress for a hundred years, how to keep dozens of minions happy, how to raise a fledgling, how to plan and execute a complex project. Well, the last not so much. He doesn't say any of these things. He just keeps his hand on hers and listens.

"How can I trust you? You can't be good."

It comes out of her like a wail, she's struggling against something he can't see or hear. 

"If I can't be good, can't I just not do evil? Would that be enough?"

Her hand comes down on his cheek, gently. His whole body twitches in surprise, it's too used to translating slaps into caresses, violence into love, to be able to process her gesture immediately.

"Maybe."

FINIS

**April Is In My Mistress Face, Thomas Morley **

April is in my mistress' face.   
And July in her eyes hath place.   
Within her bosom is September,   
But in her heart a cold December.


End file.
